fifteen lessons in exile
by Mirakuru Rein
Summary: HIATUS. AU, story 1 of the trilogy Naruverse Cubed. Inspired by the movie “Fight Club.” Different plot twist though, involves Hidan. Figure out the other character for yourself. Get ready for some blood and violence, seriously.


A/N: Inspired by the movie "Fight Club." Not the same plot, though.

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fifteen lessons in exile.

_I am jack._

_(pleased to meet you.)_

_xx…mirakuru rein…oo_

_--_

--

The cell smells like sweat and a bad case of stir-crazy.

I am Jack's imprisoned soul, trapped within bars that I wish would melt but just seem to stay solid, out of spite.

I do not know how long I've been in here. Time doesn't matter anymore, I've found out – the first few days I would frantically scratch on the walls shaky lines, trying to judge about how long each day lasted. There are no windows. Their way of breaking you down is to keep you inactive, jittery, counting each approximate day down, bleak in a cell just big enough to fit your rotting body, until, they hope, you go mad, insane. They hope and I've seen it happen. The guards give us looks of "you're next, you motherfucking –!"

They let us out during lunch. Mess hall is the right term for imagery – grimy benches and long tables, splashed with the tell-tale road signs of bile and blood. Bile – from throwing up. It's hard to eat a meal a day, and after a while your stomach just rejects whatever you put into it. Blood – because our daily entertainment, and the guards', were fights. Fist fights. No sissying. Teeth are lost, bones broken like toothpicks, skulls smashed, people are even killed. But no one ever stops it. Here, the lunch show is what we live for. It's the only thing we love anymore, inside the sunless walls.

They shaved my head the day I got here. Since then it's grown, reached a length around my eyes, bright blond dirtied from splotches of dried blood never washed out, darker in the shade. Because of this – because I am currently the champion of these daily fights – they call me Jack – a Western name, a face card from a standard 52 deck. Japanese people don't have blond hair.

--

I am Jack's cold, morning wake-up call.

"Get up," I hiss at the man on the floor. He's rolling around, clutching his bloodied face melded with spit and tears. "Get up!"

"You're gonna fucking kill him!" one said in horror. He knelt down and tried to help the one on the floor.

"Pathetic." I turn around and face the crowd, arms spread out, beckoning. "Who's up next?"

They all murmur, too scared to respond to my offer. They are women in men's clothing. I scoff, hold out my arms to move my way through the crowd.

--

He's in the cell next to me. I've never seen him before – I know every single person here, because I remember every single person I beat in a fight. They're all typical Japanese men with crooked morales, black-haired and almond eyes rapists, assassins, thieves, etc. The government keeps them here, in this worst sanction possible, when it is determined they are too dangerous for human society. According to these standards, I don't know why I am in here.

He knocks on the cement wall, sticking out part of his face as best he can through the steel bars. Gray hair, hazel-colored eyes. He is not Asian like the rest. I lay by back against the bars. He is an outsider in this world.

"What's your name, kid?" His rusty voice splits open the air, like Moses, parting the Red Sea. My ears sting from the rough sound.

"Jack."

He looked at me. "Jack?"

"Yeah…Jack."

He is dubious. "Okay…_Jack._ If I told you to cut your own fucking balls off, what would you do?"

"I would tell you to go fuck yourself."

"Fuck, c'mon. Answer the damn question. What would you _really _do?"

He had a smirk on his face as I gave him a sidelong glance. I could tell – he knew. Somehow, the newcomer knew about my prestigious status at this delta of hell.

"If you wanted a fight, you could've just asked for it, you know," I said dryly, getting up.

"I didn't want God to think I was a fucking selfish brat."

God? Don't count on God. God doesn't exist here.

--

At lunch he approached me slowly, a tiger closing in for its kill. I spotted him across the room but I didn't react.

He walked up calmly to me – and without prelude – landed a punch into my face.

I was caught completely by surprise. Fights were usually announced, timely things. This was unexpected. My meager trayful of unidentifiable mush went pirouetting in the air and crashed into the floor like a bird commiting suicide, nose-diving.

Blood spilled from my nostrils and slightly-parted lips. I wiped the side of my cheek, the red liquid squirming on my hand. I looked at it in disbelief.

"Besides, asking's overrated," he said, grinning widely.

My body was still in shock. The room was dead silent. The weight of everyone's eyes on us crushed me, and my arm quivered softly.

"Are you scared?" He drew out the last word out in a low voice – taunt. He was taunting the injured lion. Unforgivable.

Immediately I leapt up from my feet and slammed my fist into his face. He blocked it. Uppercut. A dodge. Right hook? He brushed it aside like a light summer's breeze.

I was inflamed. My lungs burned by the end of the fight – my legs were jelly, my arms limp branches thrashed from the strong winds. My eyes glared at him so much that they burned holes through his (nonexistent?) soul.

"_Anarchist,_" I spat out. We looked at each other – facial face-off.

Staring was not his forte. His lips gave way to a small smile, then – he started laughing. Full-blown laughter, echoing throughout the room and reversing heartbeats. People stepped away from him. They didn't know what to make of this incident.

At the sound of his laughter, my soul suddenly grew wings and flew. I don't see anyone in the room, I hear only my heart beating fanatically. I am Jack's ascension.

--

"Why are you here?" I ask, as in "What did you do wrong that landed you here?" We are in our cells. We have conversations late afternoon, speaking quietly so people viewing the scene would have never thought that we were talking.

"People these days have a fucking problem, something against religion, it's fucking insane. That's why I'm fucking here."

"_You're_ insane."

"Why, you have some shit against religion too? Don't tell me."

"God doesn't exist. He can't."

"A fucking atheist, yeah? Well, for all I know, you 'tards can go fuck yourselves all you want, but when Judgment Day swings around, don't come running to me for any help."

My teeth ground together. "How can God exist if we're here? How is he there if he lets hell eat us alive?"

He sighed. "That's what you fucking atheists don't get. God doesn't have to love us. In fact, in all probability, he fucking hates our guts. That's the answer to your question – why we're fucking stuck here. But don't you want God to know who you are? If you love Him enough – enough for you to be able to kill in his name – you'll probably get your second chance. You'll probably get to your little fucking pearly white gates or whatever the rage is these days. Got it? Now fuck off about religion."

He lay down on the concrete floor, nudging his head between his arm and the bars. "Fucking atheists…"

--

We got out the third day he was here.

He picked a fight with a guard and injured him to the point that his victim ordered us both out of the prison, I supposedly being the accomplice. The government forgot about its prisoners, no one would notice if a smudge or two on society were erased. The request on behalf of the half-dead guard was issued. We fled the site like guilty dogs.

He winked at me. "Now that's how you do it."

"Why the fuck did you do that?" I was horrified. It was unneccessary violence. We were out, but we had been cast out like bloodthirsty animals – and I felt like one.

"Why the fuck did I do that? Because I felt like it. Because it was fucking fun, the best fun of my life. Because it was fucking liberating."

"You can't pick a fight for no reason," I said angrily.

"Oh yeah?" He stopped running, and turned towards me.

"What the f—?"

"Jack. I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

"What does this have –"

"Just…hit me. As hard. As you can."

"This is so fucking stupid," I said under my breath. I turned away. I wasn't going to do this. I was a bird freefalling from the sky trapped in a cage. I thought about what I would do in this world.

_Your wings are clipped._

I snapped my arm back, and threw my balled fist as hard as I could into his face.

--

"Fuck, you got my ear!" he says, coiling back, hands clasped over the side of his face. "Can't you hit correctly?"

"Sorry." But I didn't feel sorry at all. In fact, quite the opposite – I – wanted – more. Addiction.

He spun around and gave me a punch back, right in the jaw.

"Nice to meet you, _Jack. _The name's Hidan."

--

We fight everywhere, anywhere, at any time. Free from the law, we fight in back alleys, in front of bars, even in the midday sun on a busy intersection. People were attracted to us like moths to a light. Flocking towards us like sheep. Cars stopped for us, this spectacle, got out of their cars and sat on the roofs. They were fascinated by this mindless violence.

So were we.

So began Fight Club.

--

"What are we? I ask you, I ask the fucking government, I ask the whole damn world – what are we? What are we – are we useless dregs of society, shit of the sewers, something people can just – throw away? We have been told this. We have been told this for years. We are the oppressed, the ones who've been asked to fucking sacrifice _everything _– yet we don't receive anything in return. They throw us in big empty holes and forget we're there, and fucking expect us to forget about what we have to go through. This is what we are, to _them_, and we are fucking pissed."

Nameless faces stare back, expectant, scarred.

--

It was Hidan's idea first, but we made it together.

The rules were all mine. They were pure genius.

"Listen up. The first rule of Fight Club is – you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is – you _do not_ talk about Fight Club. Third rule of Fight Club – someone yells for you to fucking stop, fucking goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule, only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule, one fight at a time. Sixth rule – fights will go on as long as they fucking have to. And the seventh and final rule…"

Hidan walked calmly around the room, sniffing out the newcomers. "If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight."

I am Jack's flaming passion for madness. I am Jack's insanity.

--

Euphoria.

The feeling erupts through my muscles. The pain of a fist going through my stomach, my nose breaking in half and spurting dark blood – is pure pleasure. I laugh as they try to beat me down – no one will surpass my pain endurance, no one enjoys it as much as I do. I laugh like a madman.

"You're a fucking beast," my opponent comments through heavy breaths. His eyes are scared. He doesn't know what I am.

This is my trick – I wear them out until their breathing goes ragged, then I land one that knocks them out for the night. Works like a charm, every time.

My knuckles make contact with his face, and his head collides with the concrete floor.

Cheers erupt throughout the room. Hidan looks at me with a new kind of recognition.

"Impressive," he says as I walk past him.

"Thanks." I give him a weak smile. He pats my back.

"But you'll never be good enough. Not like this."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer. The smile dies, and the shadow grows until it covers my face. I am Jack in hiding.

--

During the day, Hidan is a priest.

He is never allowed to give sermons, though, since he always ends up swearing, yelling at the parishioners, and starting mob-like fights.

He is, however, allowed to receive confessions.

He handles them in a distinctly unorthodox manner.

"What should I do, Father?"

Hidan snorts. "Go fucking kill a few people, then maybe God will notice you."

"B-but…I can't do that! It's against the Bible…"

"Who do you think wrote the Bible? God or some fucktards who wanted to fuck with your mind?"

Needless to say, no one ever listens to Hidan, but after Fight Club, it is different.

"Go start a fight with a complete stranger," he would tell them.

"Why?"

"It's emotionally uplifting. Why not fucking try it?"

--

Suggestions became a project. Project became reality.

All over the city, chaos erupted like bees from an invaded hive, infecting every small and wasted nook and cranny. Day and night crawled with fights – blood, bile. The prison lunchroom started to resurface in my mind and I flinched.

"This is fucking crazy," I suddenly muttered. What was I? I am Jack's rejection of self. I was appalled at myself – a wave of disgust washed over my bruised body and I had a sudden urge to vomit. What had I become – a lawless _animal?_

Hidan slapped his arm on my back. "This…is fucking _freedom._"

Arrests were made all over – the slow who couldn't run away fast enough were always caught in the act. Video cameras started haunting streets like silent sentinels.

"How is this _freedom?_"

Soon even fights against the police broke out – one incident occurred in which four officers and at least ten civilians died when someone brought a gun out.

"This is barbarism. This is – "

"Anarchy." He grinned. "Exactly."

-_end of part one-_

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End file.
